


Fárbauti's Song

by khilari



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Community: norsekink, Dark, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khilari/pseuds/khilari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Jotnar do not reproduce as mortals do, instead one produces snow from their body and the other shapes it into a child. Nevertheless, battle is a poor time to be born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fárbauti's Song

The snow from your body feels so soft as I shape it and the temple shelters me in its embrace as it has sheltered so many others performing this sacred rite. Yet outside the battle rages and I could almost curse you, my love, my king, for bringing the Aesir down on us. Why couldn’t you have left the ash-people alone? They seemed so frail, their world so easily tipped towards winter, but the Aesir love them. It is said they were made almost as we are; their bodies shaped from trees, thrice-fathered by Bor’s sons. Now I shape the snow you have left me and hope our own child will be as loved.

The battle is too close, there is no time to sculpt as I would like. Forgive me, love, I’ve had to discard my beginnings and work smaller, hurriedly pressing handfuls of snow into shape. The child will be beautiful, I promise, I’ll form each limb with all my care. But small, for that’s all I can manage, although you left me enough snow for as stout and healthy a child as we could wish for. Hoofbeats outside, I pray they will not find me before I am done.

White, so white, I realise I am expecting streaks of red to appear as if the blood from the battle outside could taint my child. Our child. There have been so many screams and I think most of them were the deep voices of our people. Do not die, Laufey, my king, what will become of our child with none left to be raised by? Perhaps it would be better if I stopped, scattered the snow you left me. The child’s spirit is hovering over my shoulder, I have felt it following since we sealed our love, but there is still time to let it fall and fade with no harm done. When next it gathers strength to find a body perhaps it will be a better time for children. Yet I love you, and I want our child, and my hands still shape the body while the spirit darts around me like a bird.

Laufey, treetop, named for the sacred yews that echo the might of Yggdrasil. The child is formed, so white and still on the altar, a beautiful sculpture. You should be here to see the birth; I think the child agrees for the spirit darts and swoops around the body and will not settle. Or perhaps it is my doing, perhaps I sculpted too small and the spirit cannot find a place for itself here. Child, sweet child, wake. I promise I will love you.

Laufey? Was that your cry? I cannot stay here any longer when you are in danger. The child is complete yet empty, I have failed as a father. If I wait longer I will fail as a lover too. The spirit flits, thoughtless and bodiless, perhaps it is simply too wise to enter the cruel world.

Farewell, spirit. Farewell, child. My love, I am coming.


End file.
